Tombé
by washtellmeimpretty
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson meet at the prestigious Baker Street Ballet Academy. How will Sherlock, the star of the school, cope with being upstaged by John, the new scholarship student?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: hey guys I saw the new balletlock trend and my dancer heart skipped a beat so I knew I had to write some. This is sort of like a ballet boarding school au? They take regular school, then ballet classes in addition? I have no idea if a school like this exists but it does for my purposes. I hope you enjoy it **

John sighed, glancing at the clock as he turned. Sherlock was late.

_Plié and finish._

Releasing his grip on the barre, John walked to grab his water bottle from the piano. Sherlock was supposed to have been there twenty minutes ago. He knew that Sherlock was the top student at the Baker Street Ballet Academy, and he probably wasn't overly pleased that he'd been stuck with the new kid, but twenty minutes was a long wait. Maybe he'd forgotten.

_I should probably just go, _he thought, except he had the studio for the next hour and Lord knows he needed the practice. Taking a deep breath, John walked back and took his place at the barre. _Fifth position. Tendus. Ball and point, ball, and close with Plié. En croix . . ._

Sherlock sighed, glancing at the clock as he turned. He was late.

_Shit_. He quickly dropped out of position, unlacing his ribbons as quickly as possible. John had probably already gone. If Madame Hudson found out, he'd lose his time in the studio. He pulled off the pointe shoes, and shoved them deep into the bottom of his bag.

He always lost track of time when he was wearing his pointe shoes, which is why he usually only wore them at night. Also, it might have something to do with the giant mocking he'd get if anyone found out. After all, it was only a hobby. A once-a-week indulgence. Not to mention it was great for ankle strength. But now he was late for his lesson with the new kid, because he'd wanted to break in his new pair. _Stupid_.

Sherlock practically ran down to studio six, where (thankfully) John was stretching with one leg up on the barre. Straightening up and pushing his hair out of his eyes, Sherlock walked confidently into the room, dropping his bag by the piano.

"Sorry for the wait, I was a bit distracted," he murmured, smirking. "I see you're already warmed up so-"

"Where the hell have you been?" John interjected. Sherlock looked startled, as if he hadn't anticipated that John would be angry.

"I've been here almost an hour, waiting for you," he continued, "I get that you're important around here; you're the star. But that doesn't mean you can just walk all over me! You could've let me know you'd be late, at the very least." John finished, breathing heavier than usual.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Are you done?" he asked, seeming bored.

John frowned. "I suppose."

"Right. Let's begin, then. To the centre." Sherlock said, walking to the middle of the floor. He watched John expectantly, until he warily followed.

"Now, let me see your first arabesque."

John was panting. That was one of the hardest work-outs he'd had in years. No wonder Sherlock was such a great dancer, if he worked that hard every day. And God was he gorgeous when he was working. Totally focused on the movements, using his body to tell a story, looking like a swan as sweat dripped down his body - which John appreciated from a strictly professional view, of course.

"Nice job today." Sherlock told John, wiping his face with his towel. "You're better than I was led to believe. If you keep practicing those combinations, you should be caught up in no time." He said with a grin, walking over to John's bag. He rummaged through it till he found the other boy's phone and began tapping away.

"Hey, what are you doing?" John protested, and Sherlock handed the phone over abruptly, seemingly finished.

"You can call me next time I'm running late." Sherlock answered with a wink, and left the studio feeling lighter than he had in over a month.

Later that night, John was in his room, stretching and tapping away on his laptop. That was one of the drawbacks of being a dancer. You always had to multitask - always improving your form, always practicing. John didn't really mind, though. He loved feeling overworked, loved the burn of his muscles during morning classes. It reminded him of how hard he'd worked to get here, and how far he still needed to go.

John came from a small town with only one ballet school. He'd originally started taking classes during his first year of secondary school, as recommended by his rugby coach to improve his endurance. To his (and everyone's) surprise, he loved it. He was a natural at it, too. In only two short years, he was top of his school and seriously considering a career in ballet.

So, one Saturday morning, when Madame Adler approached him after class with a flyer for a scholarship opening at a prestigious, pre-professional academy in London, he was ecstatic. He was also terrified, with only three weeks to prepare an audition. He began training harder than ever before, working six days a week, sometimes seven.

His family wasn't rich, but in this case, Madame had provided him with a scholarship of sorts, (he taught her Monday, Wednesday and Thursday lessons in exchange for free class), for which he was extremely grateful, because his father certainly wouldn't pay. He was all for the ballet lessons when it was a temporary conditioning exercise, but "No son of his would be spending his time wearing tights and tutus, not with his money". His mum was sympathetic, of course; she could tell her son really loved to dance. In fact, when John came home from his audition, she pulled him aside and handed him a tin jar. In it were three hundred and twenty six pounds, in cash.

"I've been saving up," Mrs. Watson told him, teary-eyed. "You'll get into that school, I know you will. You're so, so talented, Johnny. I wish I could give you more, but money's been rather tight lately . . ."

John choked up a bit himself. "Mum, thank you. Thank you so much, I love you," he told her reverently, hugging her tightly.

After that day, he'd been even more dedicated. He practically lived at the studio, so that if (_when_, he secretly told himself) he was accepted, he'd be ready. He was going to be a ballet dancer. He knew it in his bones. This was what he was meant to do. So when his acceptance letter came in the mail, he'd already packed his bags, bought new tights, shoes, and a train ticket.

His father wouldn't come with them to the train station. Instead, he went to the pub. Harry went, though, wearing a sad smile.

"I'll miss you." She whispered into John's ear, giving him a knowing look.

His heart broke.

"I'm sorry." He mouthed, as he kissed his mum and took his bags. "I'll write to you both, every week."

And he did. In his dorm room (he'd been lucky enough to get a single), on the night of his first lesson with Sherlock, he wrote to Harry and his mum. He told them all about how wonderful it was there, how much he enjoyed being around the other dancers. He told them how hard his classes were and how much he ached at the end of the day. He told them how he missed them, and how he'd see them at Christmas. He ended the letter with a "Love Always, John", hit send, and fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

** A/N: Hey guys, I wanted to get this up because I'm going out of town tomorrow and I won't be back till next Sunday, so otherwise it would be forever for a new chapter. It's a bit short, but oh well. Thanks for all the support **

When Sherlock was four, his mother signed him up for ballet lessons once a week. She said it was because she wanted Sherlock to be a well-rounded child, but Sherlock knew it was because she had wanted a girl.

He didn't mind, though. He enjoyed ballet, and he was good at it. Manipulating your body, using it to send messages to people - it was fascinating. His interest lasted far longer than his mother's did.

"Are you still doing that dancing thing? Well good for you, dear. My checkbook's in my office; help yourself," she had said when Sherlock was nine and asked to be moved to a more serious ballet school.

So, when Sherlock was ten, he signed himself up for ballet lessons at the Windsor Academy of Dance), four times a week. His teacher was a bitter old Russian woman who had a particular fondness for Sherlock. She always worked him harder than the other students because she knew he could handle it. She knew that if he worked hard now, he'd easily get a job with any company in England.

Sherlock loved that she singled him out. He knew he was an exceptional dancer; he had seen enough professional Ballets to know that. Madame Dombrovski was the first person to understand how exceptional he was. His brain was suited for quick memorization, and he progressed very quickly. Madame got used to his skill level and started giving him private lessons on Saturday mornings, from nine to noon.

When Sherlock was sixteen, he saw a flyer in town about an audition for the Baker Street Ballet Academy. He brought it to Madame, who smiled and admitted she'd already begun to choreograph an audition piece.

He got in, of course. He knew he would, but he was still excited. Finally, a chance to work with people at his own level! A challenge, for once in his life. Not to mention, it would get him out of that God-awful house was packed in two hours and on a train in four.

When Sherlock met John, he was practicing in studio six (his favorite - the barre was slightly higher than all the others). They'd done a new combination in class today, which included a fouetté into an attitude turn and Sherlock hadn't quite perfected it, which was unusual for him. Madame Hudson, one of his instructors (and also the headmistress knocked quietly on the open door.

"Yoohoo, Sherlock dear? There's someone I want you to meet," She called sweetly and entered, followed by a blonde boy, a bit older than Sherlock_._

_Scholarship student. Alcoholic father. Boring._ "Sherlock Holmes," he barked at the boy. Bad first impression. Frustrated, tired, and covered in sweat. Oh well. He wouldn't have liked Sherlock anyway.

"J-John Watson," he stuttered, obviously taken aback by Sherlock's hostility. Sherlock straightened his back. Acting like this in front of Madame would not better his chance of getting his job recommendation. He pasted on a smile, and shook John's hand.

"New student?" he asked politely.

Madame answered. "Yes, John is new at the Academy. He's been taking classes for a few days, but I've noticed he's a bit behind in his classes, as well as academically. I was hoping you could give him private lessons, as well as help him study." She gave Sherlock a stern look.

"I'd love to," he said, flashing his best charming smile. John gave him a doubtful look.

Madame smiled. "Brilliant!" she exclaimed, rushing over to kiss Sherlock's cheek. "I knew you'd do it," She beamed, and Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. It was too maternal a smile.

"I'll leave you boys to it, then." she chirped, and left the room.

Sherlock shrugged and went back into the combination. Clearing his throat, John spoke.

"You don't have to tutor me, if you don't want to" he said quietly. "I know you probably don't."

Sherlock paused, straightening up and looking the other boy over. He was very attractive; tan, blonde hair, he was short; but obviously very fit. Nice legs, he couldn't help but notice.

"I don't mind," he replied, flashing a smile. He might as well; he could use some extra practice. He'd heard that teaching was a great way to improve technique. "Can you meet me next Saturday at three? I have lessons in the morning, but the afternoon should be good for you as well, correct?"

John nodded. "Right, that's fine." He said, shrugging. If this guy was willing to help, he wouldn't argue. He needed much more dancing help than with schoolwork and he'd heard all about how good Sherlock was from Madame Hudson.

Sherlock nodded. "It was nice to meet you" he probed, hoping the other boy would take the hint. He did.

"Well, I'll be off then," he said, leaving quickly, and trying not to stare at Sherlock's arse while he stretched at the barre.

The Monday after his private lesson with Sherlock, John overslept. It was eight fifty three when he woke; his class began at nine.

_Shit. _He hopped out of bed, stripped as quickly as he could, and yanked on some tights. He gathered up his things and ran out the door.

As he ran, John remembered a strange dream he'd had. He was alone on a stage, dancing in an empty auditorium. He kept fumbling, feeling as though he was messing it up somehow, though he had the steps memorized. Then, two strong hands, gripped his waist, helping him into a lift he hadn't even known was part of the choreography. It felt perfectly natural with the music, so John continued dancing, turning to notice that the hands belonged to Sherlock, who was dancing along side of him. Suddenly, they were both dancing beautifully. The steps made perfect sense, and John breezed through them, understanding the story. The house lights turned on in the auditorium and an audience gave him and Sherlock a standing ovation. John smiled and Sherlock took his hand for their bows.

He barely made it in time, entering the classroom as the clock struck nine.

"Sorry, Sir," he nodded at Mr. Lestrade, who raised his eyebrows.

"Don't apologize, Mr. Watson, just take your place at the barre." He said sternly. John nodded, taking a spot behind a smirking Sherlock.

John glared at the back of his head.

"I was on time, today." He murmured as he performed his grandé plié.

"Shut up," John whispered viciously; _port de bras forward._

Sherlock didn't answer, smirking slightly.

"Right" Mr. Lestrade called out. "Let's add on to the échappé combination we did last week . . ."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I am sosososooo sorry for the wait on this chapter! I went to camp, and then I had summer vacation and my lovely beta Gen actually has a life and so it took way to long but here it is!**

John and Sherlock became close very quickly. After that first rehearsal together, they had become inseparable, always practicing or studying together. Their teachers couldn't believe it. They'd never seen Sherlock take to someone in such a way before. He'd never really had any friends (not that they were surprised), nonetheless a best friend, which John certainly was. Mrs. Hudson was pleased. She had such a soft spot for Sherlock, and she'd never seen him so happy. Always so focused, that one.

Their teachers also noticed a definite improvement in both of them. They were dancing better, scoring better on tests (well, John was. Sherlock couldn't really improve on that front.) and simply seemed happier. They were best friend, and John was happy. He really was, but sometimes he caught himself having thoughts. Thoughts that were decidedly Not Friendly.

John groaned. "This is useless!" he whined, pushing the textbook away. "I give up."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That's the spirit." He muttered sarcastically. "Look, John, French isn't that difficult. You just have to focus."

John gave Sherlock a Look. "_You _just have to focus. Some of us are naturally terrible. We've been at this for hours, can't we take a break?" he begged.

"Bien sûr, cesser de fumer est la réponse," Sherlock murmured.

"Hmmm?" John asked, handing Sherlock a bottle of water and opening one for himself.

"Nothing," Sherlock gave a tight smile, accepting the water. John shrugged.

"Well, if we aren't going to study French, we might as well study ballet. Show me that turning combination we learned yesterday."

John winced. "Er, would you mind running it by me again? You know, refresh my memory?"

Sherlock sighed. "Right." He stood, walking to the center of the room.

"Glissade, jeté, soutenu, tombé, pas de bourré, pirouette en dehors landing in fifth, sissonne, pique with arms in third, sous sus and finish with feet and arms in low fifth. Got it?" He asked, looking at John expectantly.

John's eyes had widened slightly, pupils dilated. "Right. I'll just, do that then."

Sherlock smirked as John took position. "Please." He said sarcastically, and John did. He executed it perfectly; Sherlock was amazed.

John held his finish for a few seconds before relaxing. "Well?" he asked Sherlock, looking nervous.

"How did you do that?" Sherlock asked, incredulous.

John frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You- that was perfect. You danced that perfectly. How?"

John blushed. "Really? I guess I've just been practicing, that's all."

Sherlock shook his head. "Practicing? You're a natural. I was wondering how you got the scholarship, when you're so behind on the curriculum"

John frowned. "Thank, I guess. We should probably get back to French." He said, shifting uncomfortably under Sherlock's gaze.

"Of course not!" Sherlock exclaimed. "You're going to dance for me some more," Sherlock said, pushing John back up.

John rolled his eyes. "I can't really do much, what with the three by four meter room."

Sherlock shrugged. "Fine, let's go to our studio then." He said, grabbing his bag.

The corner of John's mouth twitched. "Our studio?" he asked, mockingly.

Sherlock blushed but gave a teasingly put upon sigh. "Studio six. Can we go now?"

John grabbed his bag and followed him. "Alright, you git. Let's go."

On the short walk to the studio, the two run into Mr. Lestrade, leaving the studio.

"Boys!" he exclaims. "I have great news!" The two students looked at him expectantly. "We've selected our production for this year. La Bayadère, one of my personal favorites." He beamed at the boys. John's eyes bulged. "La Bayadère? That's my favorite ballet, we're performing it this year?" he asked, barely containing his excitement. When he was fourteen, his mother had surprised him with tickets to the show. The first ballet he'd seen live, the one that helped him decide to go professional. "When are auditions?" John asked, anxiously. Sherlock said nothing, but looked attentive. "I still have to discuss it with Madame Hudson, but I would advise you to prepare The Variation of Solar in Act I. I'm assuming you both will be auditioning for Solar?" he asked, with a knowing smirk. The boys nodded. "Well, I'll see you boys in class tomorrow. Goodnight," and with that Mr. Lestrade continued down the corridor. John turned to Sherlock, excitement plain on his face. "Brilliant! I know that variation backwards and forwards, there's no way I won't land the part!" Sherlock smirked. "I've been the lead three years running. I'll definitely be Solar, but with your talent, you could easily land the Brahmin, or one of the Shades dancers." He mused thoughtfully. "Thanks," John said sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "But I wouldn't be so sure. I know that role. Solar is my dream part; I think you're underestimating my skills." John said, wiggling his eyebrows. Sherlock smiled, hiding his nerves. John was right. He'd seen John dance; he was perfect for the role. He'd be a gorgeous Solar, dancing gracefully alongside Nikiya, the beautiful scenery surrounding them. La Bayadère had gorgeous costumes and set design, which would compliment John's compact figure; it wasn't exactly the classical danseur physique. John had a good chance. "Well I better get practicing, then, hadn't I?" Sherlock teased, walking into the studio, knowing John would follow. They'd been at it for hours. It was nearing two am, and – though they both had nine am classes – neither was even thinking of stopping. "Right, I'm going again," Sherlock panted, wiping his face with his towel. John shook his head.

"Why? That was perfect!" he asked, confused.

"Pas assez parfait!" Sherlock shouted, strutting back to centre, muttering to himself. He signaled John to start the accompaniment track and arranged his body into position. As the music began to flow, so did Sherlock.

Translations: **Bien sûr, cesser de fumer est la réponse," Sherlock murmured. – **Of course, quitting is the answer.

"**Pas assez parfait!" Sherlock shouted – **Not perfect enough**! **Literally: not quite perfect.


End file.
